oo | (Voltaire)

          I guess I should tell you how my name is Voltaire first.

          Well it is, and that’s pretty much that. I’ve done that story before. I’m not over it, but I’d like to be. I’d like to not feel ridiculous every time someone says my name but maybe that’s not even something I’ll admit publicly. I guess this is about as public as it gets, but you’d have to be listening first.

          Firsts.

          I just finished my first year of college and my GPA is like a 3.64 or something. I got fucked over last semester with a shitty math class and I can’t see numbers in my head. I’m also somewhat dyslexic, but not in an attention grabbing way. For real. I’m somewhat damaged, who would have known? Apparently few since it always seems to come as a surprise. I’ve always assumed it’s written all over my face despite my attempts at differing disguises.

          I’m getting back into the ring of it and the first letters of my words in my shit sentences are starting to sync. See what I mean? It’s there if you look hard enough.

          So back to being damage.

          Actually, no. I’m just suffering because “not to be occupied and not to exist about to the same thing.” All people are good except those who are idle and if I were to cite who said that I’d look pretentious and uninformed of the MLA format.

          This isn’t really a stream of conscience in a way I’d find flattering if someone were to make claims.

oo | Blood Degree

The guidelines suggest you care for your kin,

The rules remind you you’re the only one that will ever save you.

oo | Dearest,

This is what you must have felt like.

Someday I’ll be looking down on everyone as you.

oo | I’m Reasonably Sure That We Survive

ooo | For the benefit of the nation or its destruction

          Once we realize as an individual collective whole that the government, yes, our government, could be corrupt and is as corrupt as the bankers fueling it with borrowed via stolen money we can move toward recognition that the DHS’ short interval message of America’s terror alert being at orange echoing through our ears but most importantly our children’s ears, we can correlate this driving force of mass media repetition whether it be by president mouth, your mouth, or my mouth with the fact that the system arousing aka heightening our since-childhood groomed paranoia is the same system providing our education to be blissfully ignorant of anything corrupt at all.

oooo | Existential Savior

          You can see from these few reflections that nothing could be more unjust than the objections people raise against us. Existentialism is nothing else but an attempt to draw the full conclusions from a consistently atheistic position. Its intention is not in the least that of plunging men into despair. And if by despair one means as the Christians do – any attitude of unbelief, the despair of the existentialists is something different. Existentialism is not atheist in the sense that it would exhaust itself in demonstrations of the non-existence of God. It declares, rather, that even if God existed that would make no difference from its point of view. Not that we believe God does exist, but we think that the real problem is not that of His existence; what man needs is to find himself again and to understand that nothing can save him from himself, not even a valid proof of the existence of God. In this sense existentialism is optimistic. It is a doctrine of action, and it is only by self-deception, by confining their own despair with ours that Christians can describe us as without hope.

Existentialism is a Humanism by Jean-Paul Sartre

“Kinderfeld” by Marilyn Manson

He lives inside my mouth

And tells me what to say

When he turns the trains

On he makes it go away

The hands are cracked and dirty and

The nails are beetle wings

When he turns the trains on he

Unties all of the strings

[The worm:]

“Tell me something beautiful,

Tell me something free,

Tell me something beautiful

And I wish that I could be.”

(Then I got my wings and I never even knew it,

When I was a worm, thought I couldn't get through it)

[Jack (not spoken):]

Come, come

The toys all smell like children

And scab-knees will obey

I'll have to kneel on broomsticks

Just to make it go away

[The inauguration of the worm]

(Then I got my wings and I never even knew it,

When I was a worm, thought I couldn't get through it)

[A voice we have not yet heard:]

“Because today is black

Because there is no turning back.

Because your lies have watered me

I have become the strongest weed” weed...

[Through jack's eyes:]

The taste of metal

Disintegrator

Three holes upon the leather belt

It’s cut and swollen

And the age is showing

[Boy:] “There’s no one here to save ourself.”

[The disintegrator (to himself):]

This is what you should fear

You are what you should fear

oo | Dawn of Creation

          I’m surrounded by the beginning of a painting that’s resting in its easel, a green hairbrush that I’ve had for so long, a bright orange leopard gecko, nine books I’m reading that aren’t even for school on topics from social media brianwashing to the human genome project to the religious hating the logical, brushes, a candle, various Apple products, a stack of blank CDs, a stack of mixed CDs, mints, an empty photo frame, and a hat from New Year’s Eve.

          What I’m trying to do is conjure beauty even though I’m a plain looking eighteen year old girl who only physically attracts guys because of her piercings and probably tattoos by now. It’s not that I dislike the way I look, I don’t. I’m happy with it. I’m a size one at 5’8” with 30Ds and my boyfriend is the most gorgeous while loving man alive. So it’s not that but I really don’t know what it is other than the sick irony of me trying to create beauty from a messy vessel of 10 pints of artistic material that so many despise and my panties feel loose because I don’t have an ass. As the figure of speech goes, “you show your ass,” meaning an attitude or something I suppose, or maybe it’s just bearing all. Well I’ve revealed so much of myself, split myself open cracked apart my ribcage and let you suffocate in my entrails that there’s so little left to share so maybe that’s what’s disappearing and maybe I should grow comfortably into the comfort of that conceitedly. There may not be much there for you to grab but at least you can be rest assured that whatever you pinch through my tight Miley jeans it’s reserved for you. Don’t consider it left overs, consider it me not finishing my dinner and purposely bringing you home something. I’m trying to be maternal but not really. I love you.

          So now I’m going to cast a gaze back at my dog that most hate and call a fag because I let him prance in a pink bandana, smile, then pick back up the pen and finish the painting I’ve started.